You stand in the doorway of your own heart,
calling into a storm that does not answer.
And still — you call.
Not out of weakness,
but because truth deserves a name.

If he is gone,
let the silence say it cleanly,
like ice breaking on a northern lake.
Let the wound freeze,
so it can finally begin to heal.

But if there is even one ember left,
one breath of warmth hidden under the ash,
then let him speak it,
not as a promise,
but as respect —
the only fire that survives a Nordic winter.

You are not losing yourself.
You are walking through a night
that asks for honesty,
not illusions.

And until the answer comes,
hold this:
your heart is not begging,
it is testifying.
It knows what love should be —
not a flame that consumes,
but a light that stands beside you
without trembling.

This is your atlas:
a map drawn in frost and dignity,
where love does not vanish,
but neither does it lie.
Where the truth, whatever it is,
arrives like dawn —
slow, inevitable,
and impossible to stop.